


Everyone's a Critic

by QueenoftheJammed (QueenoftheDarned)



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Gen, Short and stupid, poor Rythe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:55:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25986997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenoftheDarned/pseuds/QueenoftheJammed
Summary: Modryn Oreyn is so proud of his new painting that he decides to get it critiqued – and who better to share his one-of-a-kind artistic talent with than the great painter himself, Rythe Lythandas?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Everyone's a Critic

“It is the curse of an artist’s mind,” Rythe Lythandas often bemoaned to his long-suffering wife, “to never be satisfied with any of one’s own work.”  
Today, no-one in all of Cyrodiil felt the truth of this more than he, as he hovered over his latest half-finished canvas, palette in hand. He leaned this way and that, squinting with one eye at a time in the hopes that he would experience a limited-depth-perception-fuelled epiphany. After an interminable afternoon shut away in his stuffy studio, Rythe was ready to throw his canvas out of the window in disgust. Fortunately for any poor soul who might be passing the house, Rythe’s aforementioned spouse, Tivela, stuck her head around his door.

“It’s seven bells, love. I’ve put on some tea.” One glance at his wife’s smiling face, and Rythe couldn’t help but smile too. “Oh, what’s wrong?” Tivela’s face fell. “You look a little blue.”

“My dear, I’m _always_ blue.” Their little joke. Rythe stopped in the doorway to kiss his wife on the cheek. “I’m running short on inspiration, that’s all.”

“You could always paint me!” Rythe hesitated, feeling like a man who had just stepped out onto a Jerall Mountain lake and discovered the ice was not as frozen as he had first thought.

“Tivela, my love,” he said, with utmost care, “were I to paint your face for a hundred years, nay, a _thousand_ , perhaps then I could do justice to your beauty.” Tivela’s eyes narrowed, and Rythe felt the ice groan beneath his feet. “But why would I choose to stare at an imperfect imitation when I have the original masterpiece right here with me?” he quickly added.

For the second time in as many minutes there came a timely interruption, as a knock on the door echoed through the house. Rythe silently raised his eyes heavenward and thanked Azura for the diversion.   
“Oh, look at me, I’m in no state to receive visitors!” he exclaimed, making a show of waving his paint-splattered hands, and made his escape upstairs. When he returned, he found Tivela in the parlour with a man he’d never seen before. The man clutched something flat wrapped in thick cloth.

“Rythe, this gentleman has come all the way from Chorrol to have his work appraised. He’s a painter, just like you!” Tivela chirped. With a sinking feeling, Rythe took one look at the stranger and inwardly groaned. He had seen this type before - men growing ever closer to middle age, suddenly trying to find their 'true calling'… or at least the hobby they felt would require the least amount of effort. This one even had the same stupid haircut.

"Fine,” he sighed, hoping Tivela would at least keep the tea hot. “Come through here.” With a polite nod in Tivela’s direction, the stranger followed Rythe to his studio. As he placed his bundle onto a spare easel, Rythe noted with mounting puzzlement that he was clad in armour from head to toe.

“So,” Rythe began. “You’re here for a critique.” 

“That’s right, I’m a great admirer of your work,” said the stranger, with enthusiasm. “I was hoping I could get your complete and honest opinion on my latest piece. From one artist to another, you know.” Oh, wonderful. He even pronounced it ‘ar- _teeste_ ’.

"Alright then, I won’t hold back. What’s your name, by the way?"

"Oh, how rude of me. I’m Modryn Oreyn." Rythe’s blood ran cold.

"The… _the_ Modryn Oreyn? The _Fighters Guild_ Modryn Oreyn?"

"That's right, I used to be champion of the Fighters Guild, but I've recently decided to pursue my interest in... well, you've probably guessed by now. I've been told I possess a rare talent."

"I... _see_ ." wondering when exactly those boneheads at the fighters guild had suddenly taken it upon themselves to start doing _his_ job, Lythandas steeled himself and gestured to the easel in the centre of the room. "Well, let's see it then."   
Oreyn placed his ‘masterpiece’ on the easel and unveiled it with a flourish.

Rythe could feel his lips moving, although no sound came out and he couldn’t quite work up the willpower to stop them. Once he had managed to clamp them shut and regained the use of his limbs, he fumbled for a moment as he attempted to cross his arms, discovered this didn’t feel right at all and swapped them over, before deciding at last on the most natural pose he could think of. He settled one hand upon his hip, while stroking his non-existent beard with the other, and arranged his features in an expression that he hoped would pass for thoughtful.

He had expected a gaudy still-life of some fruit, or a tasteless nude portrait. At least he would have known how to handle that. What lay before him was... well, it was an abomination, for lack of a better word. And Lythandas _never_ had a lack of appropriate words at hand. This had to be a practical joke, he decided, turning to the man beside him.

"Which of your guildmates, if I may be so bold...?"

"Vilena Donton.”

"Ah.” Rythe suddenly couldn’t help but notice how very _sharp_ the sword hanging at Oreyn’s side was. A bead of sweat trickled from his temple, down his neck, and into his shirt. He rubbed his neck uncomfortably.   
"Er, well." Oreyn was still gazing at him expectantly, so he cleared his throat and tried to think of something to say that didn’t mean exactly what he was thinking.   
“What an _interesting_ choice of colours you’ve used!” he began, with mock enthusiasm. “And I do feel like there’s a… a… an untold story behind your work, so… ah… why don’t you tell me… more?” He took a deep breath and clasped his hands together behind his back so the taller Dunmer wouldn’t see them shaking.

“I’m glad you picked up on that!” Oreyn said brightly. “It all came about like this. Until recently I was the Champion of the Fighters Guild here in Cyrodiil – oh, but you already knew that, didn’t you…”   
Putting years of experience of married life to good use, Rythe plastered on a neutral expression while his mind wandered – or in this case, raced. Particularly distinct and unpleasant mental images of himself being skewered in the immediate future weren’t doing his nerves any favours. What was he going to do?

_“Azura, are you listening?”_ he silently prayed. _“I beg of you, I’ll do anything –_ anything _if you’ll just get rid of this madman! I’ll… I’ll paint Tivela’s portrait, even!”_

“…and so I thought I’d paint the filthy lizar- _unfortunate wretch_ to commemorate the moment!” Oreyn finished happily, oblivious to the painter’s inner turmoil.

“Hm? Oh, yes, fascinating!” Oreyn’s face lit up, and in that moment, Rythe finally had his epiphany. Whether Azura had answered his prayer or his own self-preservation instincts had kicked in, he would never know, but by the gods, it was _something_ .   
“My dear fellow, your skills really are in a class of their own, but from one artist to another –” here he winked conspiratorially and drew closer to the warrior beside him – “a great artist needs great tools, am I not correct?”

“Well, I never thought about it before…”

“Of course I’m right!” Rythe continued hastily, “Here, let me give you something that will, er, _elevate_ your art to yet higher echelons of artistry!”

“I… what?” Oreyn had been nodding along, but at the quizzical look he shot Rythe, the painter bit his tongue hard enough to leave permanent teeth marks.

“It will make you paint good,” he said flatly. Then, remembering Oreyn’s sword, “Good _-_ er. _Better!”_ This seemed to satisfy Oreyn, and Rythe set about rummaging through the forgotten corners of his studio for the tool in question.   
A few minutes went by and the room filled with displaced dust and several disgruntled spiders, before the artist straightened up with a muffled “ah-HA!” and produced what he was looking for with a flourish. “Behold!”

“It’s a paint brush,” said Oreyn, with a touch of disappointment. 

“Ah, but it’s not just _any_ paint brush, my friend. This is the Brush of Truepaint, said to have been woven from the hairs of Dibella herself!” He held it up to the light, so that Oreyn could take it in, in all its glory. The effect was slightly ruined by the fact it did look like any other paintbrush.   
  
Oreyn reached out and took the brush between his fingers. “I see. The Brush of Truepaint.” He flicked it through the air experimentally. Rythe instinctively ducked. “It’s very generous of you to give me this, Lythandas.”

“Not at all!” Rythe wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead when Oreyn wasn’t looking. “Think of it as a token of respect, from one _art-eeste_ to another.”

He helped a grateful Oreyn wrap up his painting, more out of a desire to shield his innocent neighbours than to safeguard it from damage, and ushered the warrior out of the door, smiling and chattering all kinds of nonsense. He waved farewell from his studio window as Oreyn and the Brush of Truepaint disappeared down the road, and tried not to think about what fresh horrors he might have just unleashed upon Tamriel.

“Thank you, Azura,” he breathed, and slumped against the window frame.

“So,” said Tivela, and Rythe turned to find her in the doorway, her hands on her hips. She smiled sweetly, and he had the sinking feeling that, somewhere, a certain Daedric Prince was laughing at him. “About my portrait...”


End file.
